Unforgivable
by LisaT
Summary: 'Connor, you need to come home. Something awful's happened.' How does Connor react to that summons home at the end of 9.19? One-shot. Please R&R. Connor/Imogen, Christine.


_I was hugely annoyed at the beginning of 9.20 that we didn't get to see Connor's initial response to being called home. His attitude was unexpected; he was nothing but kind and supportive, there was no trace of anger, he was just… resigned. That's a pretty sharp contrast to his reaction to Christine's fall off the wagon in 8.14, and I thought it deserved some kind of expansion._

_As always, read and _please_ review. Comments, concrit, anything!_

* * *

**UNFORGIVABLE**

* * *

**Cookie's restaurant, London, 3.00pm**

* * *

'Connor, you need to come home. Something awful's happened.'

Ice swept through Connor's veins at his wife's declaration, freezing him more effectively than the frigid air of the cold room, with its three blast chillers. He had to swallow twice and lick his lips before he was able to get out the single word, 'Mum?'

'She's been weird all day!' Imogen sounded distraught. 'They're sayin' she came in drunk and Darren Hughes and that lot are spreading some story about her not dressing herself right. They're calling her Two-Shoe Mulgrew and now she's been taken away by the police and nobody's telling us anything!'

Connor forced himself to breathe through his nose. 'Get hold of Mr Windsor,' he croaked at last. 'He and Mum go back a long way—'

'I tried that, but Mr Lowsley told me that Mr Windsor's already gone to the police station! And then Dynasty told us that her mum's gone there too!'

He blinked, wondering if he'd heard aright. 'Carol Barry has gone to the station for my mum?!'

'More like for Mr Windsor,' his wife said sceptically. 'Never mind them, you've got to come!'

He couldn't speak, torn apart by conflicting emotions: white-hot fury and betrayal swirled with soul-eating guilt, the conviction that this was his fault for leaving. He'd known it would come to this, he'd even told Imogen so the day Cookie had offered him the job. 'When are you going to stand up to her?' Imogen had demanded, and he'd said, flatly, 'When she's not an alcoholic.' But then his mother had insisted he take the job, and that night—surrounded by the friends who were the closest thing to family he'd ever had—he'd conned himself into believing that it would all work out. That his mother was at last strong enough, secure enough, to be left.

He sighed, running one hand through the what was left his closely cropped dark hair. 'Fine, I'll get the sleeper tonight.'

'I'll go to Dynasty's,' Imogen said. 'Wait for news there.'

'Yeah.' He wasn't really listening, he was too busy cringing at the thought of having to ask for leave already. The other kitchen staff had made it clear that as porter he was the lowest of the low, even if Cookie had rather taken him under her wing.

He jerked back to attention at his wife's next words.

'Connor, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I didn't see this coming, but she really seemed on top of things, you know? I told you about the way she rescued me and Rhiannon some weeks back, she was amazing, totally epic—'

'That doesn't mean a thing,' he interrupted tiredly. 'One, my mum's a brilliant actress. Two, whatever set her off this time, it wasn't your fault. Look, I've gotta go. The sous chef's giving me dirty looks and if I don't keep in his good books—'

'OK. OK, I'll go. Just let me know when you're on your way and I'll meet you at the station.'

'Yeah. Great. Love you, see you soon—' but she'd already hung up and he did likewise, leaning back against the tiled walls and sliding down its smooth slipperiness until he was crouched on the floor, his arms hanging hopelessly over his knees.

Someone banged on the door.

'Mulgrew, what the bloody hell are you doin' in there? We'd like those pannacottas yesterday! Service is startin' any minute, man!'

Connor groaned and got to his feet, shoving his phone back into his pocket. Better get the bloody pannacottas, otherwise he'd never get close enough to Cookie to make his request. The sous chef excelled at petty tyranny.

Fortunately, by the time he'd loaded his tray and swung through service was in full swing and then it was all systems go until Cookie called for the last round. As he helped wiped down the great banks of stainless steel Connor watched for his boss out of the corner of his eye, poised to pounce if an opportune moment came.

In the end it was she who initiated the conversation by pointing out a blob of pastry dough that he'd missed.

'What happened to you earlier?'

He glanced up, not deceived by her casual tone. Cookie was a tiny woman with birdlike bones who ruled her kitchen with a rod of iron. Only the twinkling brown eyes that reminded him of Maggie Budgen prevented him from being utterly terrified of her.

He felt the heat rise on the back of his neck and returned to his scrubbing. 'Imogen called.'

'Oh? An emergency, was it?'

He gulped. 'Actually, it was.' The table was sparkling clean and he straightened. 'Cookie, I'm dead sorry but I'm gonna have to go home. I know I'm not supposed to but it's my mum, she needs me—'

The brown eyes facing his narrowed, scrutinising him carefully.

Panic was starting to well. 'Please, I'm not lyin', I swear. I'll be gone less than forty eight hours, I just… I need to go _home_.'

'Forty eight hours, eh?'

He nodded, his throat too tight for more.

'We've got that big dinner tomorrow. I was gonna let you try your hand at the starters.'

That hurt. He'd been longing to do some actual cooking during service instead of being everyone's skivvy. For a heartbeat he considered saying _Forget it, my mum'll be fine, she's always been fine before…_ but he couldn't. He'd never realised before that responsibility could become more than a habit, that it could be engrained within his very cells. No matter what she'd done he could no more turn his back on his mother when she needed him than he'd consider jumping off Big Ben.

His throat was so dry that it hurt to say, 'I'm sorry.'

Cookie sighed deeply before clapping him on the shoulder, her strength surprising given her seeming fragility. 'Another time, eh?' She gestured towards the door. 'Get. See you in forty eight hours!'

Connor's hands were shaking so much he struggled to get out of his overalls, but at last he managed it and bolted for the door. A call made him pause and turn back.

Cookie stood watching him.

'Good luck!'

He gave a single jerky nod and left, his heart beating a frightened tattoo that would not cease until he set foot in Greenock once again.

* * *

**Greenock station, 5.00am**

* * *

'Have you seen her?' he demanded breathlessly of his wife once they'd finishing clinging and kissing in the early morning light. 'Is she out yet?'

'Yeah, Dynasty says her mum's just back, fuming at the way the police tried to mess her about. Mr Windsor's brought her home, apparently.'

'OK, thanks. I'll head home. Comin'?'

Imogen raised large eyes to his face. 'Connor… you know I'd love to be there, don't you? I would really love to go with you to support you, but… I can't. Your mum needs _you_, just you.'

Connor sighed, recognising the truth of this. 'Yeah, you're right. Thanks for understanding. Go home and get some kip, I'll call you later?'

'You better!' she breathed, pulling his head down towards her again. 'Otherwise you'll be keepin' me up, wondering and worrying.'

It was difficult to let her go, almost impossible to lift one foot in front of the other and move away from her, towards the coastal road where his mother lived. It was promising to be a beautiful day, the sea a mirror reflecting the soft white-blue of the sky above. No-one was about—only him; even the houses were dead, their windows still and dark. After all, it wasn't much past five.

His mother's house was the exception. The downstairs lights were on, and there was a decrepit looking black car in the driveway instead of his mum's big Honda. That gave him a pang; she'd loved that car, had insisted on dragging him round the showrooms to find exactly the right one, the car that would be her prize to herself for staying sober.

He stood for a long while staring at the door, trying to nerve himself to enter. A bird called high above, and he jumped, suddenly aware that time was passing and the world beginning to stir. A few steps took him past the beatup old black car (was it Mr Windsor's? It looked vaguely familiar) and his hand was on the doorknob, turning it.

It swung open without resistance and his lips tightened. If it _was_ Windsor, what was he thinking?

The inner door was locked, he was glad to see, but remained unchained. That was good, it meant he could use his key. A single twist and he was in the front hall, hardly daring to breathe.

Was that voices?

At last he ventured a cautious 'Mum?' He might be mishearing and he didn't want to wake her if she was sleeping.

A long pause—and the kitchen door opened, pouring a shaft of yellow light, and his mum appeared. The remnants of her work outfit were wrinkled and unkempt and her hair hung in limp strands about her face.

That at least was familiar.

The sound she made was not. Connor caught only the merest glimpse of her expression before she covered her face with her hands.

He inched nearer. 'Mum?'

'What are you doing here?' Her voice was like sandpaper, catching on the syllables.

'What do you think?' He wanted to touch her, to hug her—or maybe to shake her, but he'd learned through long and painful experience how brittle and volatile she could be in this state.

Her lips tightened. 'Imogen. Connor, I'm sorry, I swear I told her not to tell you, I made her promise, you're living your own life now, you don't need me disrupting—' She sounded frantic and he couldn't bear it.

'Shut up, Mum.' He pulled her close, instantly recognising the smell that washed over him: a blend of his mum's favourite perfume and shampoo combined with the more pungent reek of alcohol. It should have repulsed him, infuriated him, but oddly it welcomed him home. That scent was the stuff of his earliest memories.

'I've missed you,' he mumbled, realising it was true.

He heard that sound again, and this time it registered: a sob strangled at birth that somehow turned into his name, as if she couldn't believe he was there, and a lump formed in his throat.

'It's OK, Mum, I'm here, I'm really here.'

'Oh, God, Connor…' He felt her arms go around him, squeezing him hard in the old way, and the tendrils of fear that had accompanied him all the way from London dissipated. Even barely sober this was the mother he'd come to love, not the vitriolic harpy of his childhood reality and adult nightmares.

This time she did not try to restrain her tears and he held her as she wept, his chin resting on her hair. It was a moment he would remember all his life: the moment when he indisputably crossed the gulf that lay between boy and man.

* * *

**Mulgrew Home, 12.50pm**

* * *

It was nearly one in the afternoon before he saw his mum again. Imogen had arrived an hour before, but they'd crept to his room and talked quietly until they heard the sounds of movement next door, followed by a soft padding down the stairs.

Connor sat up, signing for his wife to stay where she was. 'I'll go and see how she's doing,' he murmured as he rose and pulled on a clean t-shirt. 'I'll shout if she's fit for human consumption.' His tone was wry, but Imogen's gentle nod told him she understood.

_I'm a lucky guy_, he thought as he made his way to the kitchen. _Imogen and me, we're each other's whole world. Mum's never had that. If she had—_ He choked the thought off, unwilling to pursue it.

'Afternoon,' he greeted as he entered, but it was wasted effort. His mum barely moved, the belt of her dressing gown trailing forlornly on the floor, her elbows planted on the table and her fingers digging into her hair.

He stared at her back for a long moment, once again struggling with the old instinctive anger. He had to keep it under, he told himself. It wasn't fair. It wasn't his mum's fault she was like this. He turned to the kettle and set it boiling, throwing bread into the toaster and pouring a glass of orange juice. The familiar routines of the kitchen soothed him, and when the tea—strong and bitter, just as his mum liked it—was ready, he was able to place it in front of her with a smile.

She didn't move.

'Mum,' he prompted. 'Drink up. It'll help.' He plonked the orange juice next to the tea and returned to the island for the toast and his own cup.

'I don't want this,' she rasped as he put the toast before her. 'I'm not hungry.'

'Doesn't matter, you're eatin' it,' he insisted. 'You need it.'

She flashed him a look. 'To soak up the drink, you mean?'

'Well—' he began, and broke off when she gave a mirthless chuckle. 'What?'

'Sweetheart, the alcohol's long gone. It's nearly twenty-four hours since I've had anything stronger than water. I'm as sober as you are.' She took a sip of her tea, and another. 'God, that's good. They wouldn't even give us tea in the station—' Her lips tightened into a thin line and the line quivered. 'You're a good boy but you shouldn't have come. I deserve everything that's happened, I have been _so_ stupid…'

He shifted uncomfortably. 'But—'

'I've blown it, Connor. Totally and utterly. In one day I have destroyed everything, and—d'you know what the worst of it is? I can't pretend anyone else is to blame.' She scoffed. 'See, I can't even lie to myself anymore.'

'That's a good thing,' he reminded her desperately. 'The counsellor said it was always better to be honest, especially with yourself.'

'H'mm.' She gulped the last of her tea and reached for the juice, knocking it back with a practiced twist of the hand. Dark rings circled her eyes when she looked at him, but they were clear, he realised. She'd told the truth when she said she was sober.

As she proceeded to prove by gesturing towards the kitchen door.

'Call Imogen.'

Connor choked on the tea he'd made for himself and her lips twitched.

'I know she's there, young man. There's nothing wrong with my hearing. Call her. There's something I need to tell her.'

Eyeing her dubiously, he pulled out his phone. 'Sure?'

'Connor, for God's sake do it!'

He obeyed, pressing his wife's name. When Imogen's bewildered and sleepy face appeared on screen he conjured a grin. 'Hey, sleeping beauty. Fancy brunch?'

She blinked at him. 'What? But your mum—'

He was startled when his mother plucked the phone out of his hand. 'Imogen. Please.'

'OK… OK. If you're sure.'

Imogen must have started moving as soon as his mum started talking, for they could hear her on the stairs and then she was at the door, tentatively hovering. Connor held out a hand.

'C'm'ere.' He pulled her down onto his lap. 'Mum wants to say somethin'.'

She stiffened. 'Mrs Mulgrew.'

'Imogen,' his mum sighed. 'I—I need to apologise, I was out of order yesterday. You were only trying to show your concern. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for not letting you help, I'm sorry for making you promise…'

Imogen did not relax one iota. He could feel the tension all through her body.

'You lied to me,' she said with the fierce intensity that had first drawn him to her. 'I asked if you were really OK and you lied. You said it yourself, I'm family now and if Connor's not here you need to let me in.'

'I tried that and you knocked me back!'

'You took me by surprise! You've never shown in any interest in getting to know me as _me_ before!'

They were glaring at each other, the two people he loved most in the world, but he had the sense to keep quiet, realising that one wrong word from him now could well and truly upset the fragile applecart that was the relationship between his mother and her daughter-in-law.

It was his mum who relented first, her shoulders slumping. 'Yeah, yeah, you're right.'

Imogen wasn't finished. 'I'm not the enemy, Mrs Mulgrew—'

'Christine,' his mum interrupted. 'My name is Christine.'

'I can't call you that, you're my headteacher!'

'Not any more.' Connor could feel Imogen's surprise, as tangible as her earlier annoyance had been. 'I quit. Mr Bain couldn't wait to accept my resignation—so no, Imogen, I am not your headteacher. In fact, I'm not even your teacher. After this, I'll probably never teach again.'

'You can't just give up! You're an amazing teacher!'

His mum's lips quirked. 'But not such an amazing headteacher, eh?'

Imogen slid from Connor's lap to the seat beside him. 'I didn't say that.'

'You didn't need to.' Connor exchanged a glance with his wife, but his mum lifted a hand to quell their responses. 'It's OK. I let everyone down yesterday. No matter what happens, I deserve it. What I did was unforgivable—just as unforgivable as what I've done to you all these years, Connor. Well, no more.'

Her calm unnerved him. He thought it'd almost be easier if she was angry or indignant, railing at the world (and him) as she used to. This quiet acceptance of fault was … disconcerting.

'Mum—' he tried, but she was already getting to her feet. 'What're you doing?'

'I'm getting dressed,' his mum said, brushing her hair behind her ears. 'Because ... the three of us are going out for the afternoon as a family and we're going to forget everything else. I want to enjoy a few hours with my son and get to know my daughter-in-law away from Waterloo Road. We're going to walk along the promenade and eat ice cream and tell bad jokes and I don't want to hear "Mrs Mulgrew" again today, or someone will be getting a stern talking-to, is that clear?'

Connor nodded, his throat too tight for speech. Was it pure accident that the day she'd described was exactly the kind of summer day he'd longed for so fruitlessly as a kid? It wasn't that his mum hadn't taken him on holidays; it was just that more often than not he'd ended up amusing himself while she slept off the effects of the latest bender…

'Is that clear?' his mum repeated in her classroom tone, and they murmured agreement. 'Good.' Her smile was strained. 'We're going to have a great day—and then we'll get you to the station in time to catch the sleeper back to London tonight, son. I won't have you risk your future for me.'

'But Mum—'

She shook her head. 'Ah ah. _Tonight_, young man. This is my mess and _I_ will clear it up.'

Connor prepared to argue but Imogen's nails dug deep into his arm and he stayed quiet while his mum assured them she'd be ready within the half-hour and departed. Once the kitchen door had closed behind her he turned to his wife.

'What was that for?'

Imogen was glaring again. 'What d'you think? She's right, Connor. This is her mess. You've got a life of your own, _we've_ got a life of our own and we're going to live it, yeah?'

He didn't want to spoil the day by causing an argument, so he mumbled something she accepted as agreement and moved to get them another cup of tea while they waited. All the time, anxiety swooped and dived like butterflies in his tummy. He didn't like this at all. Not one bit.

_I'll have to keep an eye on her_, he thought as he poured boiling water into the chipped ceramic teapot. _I'll come back as often as I have to, until she gets over this. And if I have to, I'll give everything up and come home. Because at the end of the day, all this isn't Mum's fault. It's mine._

* * *

**END**

* * *

_I thought a sense of guilt might be a plausible reason for Connor's reaction. In 8.14 he didn't yet know about Christine's past; this is the first time she's fallen off the wagon since then, so I think he'd be more understanding that he was prior to that. Besides, it's a terrible burden for a kid (even an adult kid) to shoulder, knowing that you exist as a result of rape and that's why your mum's an alcoholic! It'd be pretty strange if that didn't eat away at him to some degree. In addition, we know from 9.12/13 that Connor had reservations about Christine's ability to cope without him... _


End file.
